


You Know The Type

by ScopesMonkey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal, Anal Sex, Dominance, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, PWP, Rough Sex, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 03:52:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScopesMonkey/pseuds/ScopesMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a bad day at work and needs to take out some frustration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Know The Type

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this [ work](http://doublenegativemeansyes.tumblr.com/post/23860927166/j-harder-s-john-j-i-want-it-harder) by double-negative means yes (NSFW).
> 
> This is not strictly speaking a Valentine's Day story. It's just straight up PWP.
> 
> It's also technically a Sugarverse story but you don't need to have read that series to read this - but that's why John's eyes are brown and the term "husband" is used.

The pounding of feet on the stairs brought John through the flat door and a wave of relief through Sherlock’s mind.  Brown eyes bright with agitation narrowed at the figure seated across from Sherlock and John’s lips pressed into a thin, firm line.

“Mycroft.  Out.”

His brother’s eyebrows rose, an affronted look crossing his features.  John’s stance changed the moment it seemed Mycroft wouldn’t obey, adopting a more military posture, tension flowing along his shoulders down to his hands, which he fisted and unfisted, tendons jutting out against his skin.

“ _Now!_ ” John barked, his tone brooking no argument.  Still, Mycroft took his time. Rising slowly, meeting Sherlock’s gaze with a long, cool look.

“We’ll speak again soon,” he said.  Sherlock was sure they would, but it wouldn’t be by his choice.  He gave an indifferent nod, eyes following Mycroft out the door.  John’s glare was hotter and brighter than his own impassive gaze.

The moment Mycroft was over the threshold, John snapped the door shut and threw the locks, earning an unnoticed arch of an eyebrow from Sherlock.  Clearly it wasn’t Mycroft’s presence that was upsetting his husband.

John crossed the room in two long strides, bracing himself on the arms of the chair, pinning Sherlock in, cheeks red, eyes blazing.

“I had a patient today who was a real bastard,” he said.

“Obvious,” Sherlock replied.  “You clearly–”

John moved so fast Sherlock hadn’t registered the motion until the doctor’s hand was pressed over his lips, pushing his head back hard.  John’s face was pressed against his, a slight scratch of stubble against his cheek, breath warm in Sherlock’s ear.

“Cocky asshole,” John hissed, voice bordering on dangerous.  “Tall bloke.  Dark hair.  And he was wearing that musky vanilla cologne that I _like_.  Complete and utter twat.  Sound familiar?”

Any attempt at a reply was lost as John turned and nipped at Sherlock’s neck, pinching sensitive skin between his teeth until the pain blossomed.  Sherlock brought his hands up, but John scrambled into the chair to straddle him.

As short as he was, John wasn’t light, and he knew how to use the solid weight he kept hidden under his warm jumpers.  He pinned Sherlock with quick efficiency, not even looking when he snagged the detective’s wrists and dragged them behind his head, teeth still assaulting Sherlock’s neck.  Open lips were pressed against a newly forming bruise, and John sucked.  _Hard_.

Sherlock let out a startled moan that sharpened to a cry when John sank his teeth into the junction of his neck and shoulder.  He twisted his head aside, partly to try and escape, partly to give John better access.  He could feel the small blood vessels breaking, the sensation flashing straight to his groin, followed by one of John’s hands as the other deftly held both of Sherlock’s wrists in a tight grip.

His vision faltered when John pressed a hand against him, rubbing roughly, and Sherlock was a bit alarmed at how his hips tilted upward of their own accord, seeking more.  John gave it to him, teeth working the bruises along his neck, making them deeper.  Sherlock bit his lower lip, trying to stifle his moans that escaped anyway, a soft, desperate counterpoint to John’s ragged breathing.

“I’m going to fuck you,” John whispered, voice already husky, “until you scream.”

Sherlock managed to raise his head, meeting John’s dark eyes, letting a slow smile curl on his lips.

“Is that so?” he asked.

John’s pupils engulfed his irises, turning brown to black, and Sherlock knew he’d hit the mark – John wanted a fight, not submission or docility.

“Watch me,” John answered.

Sherlock slipped John’s grasp and pushed them both up, catching John before the doctor could stumble, and shoved him backwards until he was pressed up against the glass of one of the kitchen doors.  He dragged John’s hands overhead, relishing the way the doctor’s chest heaved as he tried to suck in a deep breath.

“I intend to do more than watch,” he murmured, voice dark and thick with promise.

John moaned, going limp – for a half second Sherlock believed it, then he was being forced back, propelled until they hit the sofa, and John’s weight collapsed on him on him again.  He shoved a thigh between Sherlock’s legs and pressed down; there was no way Sherlock could have contained the moan as he thrust in response, the pressure making him so hard he started to ache.  The slide of wool against his skin didn’t quite mask the rasp of denim and he knew John could make him come like this, but Sherlock didn’t want it to be over so soon.

When he tried to stop, John pressed down harder.  Sherlock arched his head back, John’s low growl making him moan.  The edges of his vision began to go black, his focus narrowing to the feel of John’s leg against him and it wouldn’t take much more…

John pulled away so suddenly that Sherlock forgot to breathe, gasping in air only when his lungs demanded it, the room spinning around him before jolting to a stop.  He growled in response but John was pinning him suddenly, teeth and lips working the hollow at the base of Sherlock’s throat.  A hand pressed down in to the cushion next to his head, short thumbnail dragging across the skin on his neck before dropping away, emerging from between the cushions a moment later with a tube of lube.

He focused on John’s thumb poised on the cap, heart pounding in anticipation of the soft snap that would mean John inside him soon – but the doctor gave a small, mischievous smile and tossed the tube away.

The sudden realization that without lube they would have to resort to spit made him weak – it would be so much _more_.  More of everything – pain, pleasure, sensation.

“Until you _scream_ ,” John repeated.

Sherlock braced himself, wrapped his arms around his husband, and rolled them onto the floor.

They missed the coffee table by a narrow margin, John hissing at the close call, giving up some of his advantage. 

John’s rugby and military training was pitted against Sherlock’s experience scrapping with criminals and his height – in wrestling, they were fairly evenly matched, even if Sherlock had to divert part of his attention to keeping them away from unyielding obstacles.  Mouths and hands were everywhere until their clothing was strewn around them, some of it tossed across the room, some of it left where it had been ripped off.  He could feel the cotton of John’s discarded t-shirt brushing his cheek when his husband shoved two fingers into his mouth.

Sherlock sucked greedily, hissing when John pulled away, crying out when those same two fingers were pushed into him.  The rough wool of the carpet scraped his bare skin; he wanted rug burns down his back and he wanted John to put them there.

The shock from teeth closing around a nipple made him arch up, fingers fisting into John’s short hair, pulling him closer.  The doctor growled, the sound shooting straight to Sherlock’s groin.  John’s free hand was maddeningly not where Sherlock wanted it to be and, when he pulled away from Sherlock’s chest abruptly, the detective’s eyes snapped open with a gasp.

John was sitting between his legs, grinning evilly, dark eyes glinting.

“Think I could make you come just from this?” he asked, rubbing Sherlock’s prostate mercilessly for emphasis.  He couldn’t stop the moan, but he grabbed John’s wrist, yanking it away, groaning at the sudden loss of contact.

John stiffened his arm but Sherlock was already swinging himself up, using his momentum to unbalance his husband.  They collapsed in a tangle, fighting for the advantage, harsh breathing punctuated by moans when a hand or a mouth found a sensitive spot. 

Sherlock managed to pin John suddenly beneath him, lying full length along the doctor’s back, John’s left arm twisted behind him and trapped between their bodies.  The fingers of his right hand curled into the carpet as Sherlock thrust against him.  Tension quivered through John’s muscles as he tried to restrain himself from fucking the rug; when Sherlock fingers closed around the lube and flipped the cap, John lost his resolve, whimpering as his hips moved.

“If it had been me,” Sherlock whispered, voice ragged, “what would you have done?  Ordered me to strip?  Forced me over the bed?  Put a hand over my mouth so the patients in the other rooms couldn’t hear?”

John moaned, breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

“Or,” Sherlock continued, dropping his head so his lips moved against the back of John’s ear, “would I have done all that to you?”

John shouted, the sound barely muffled by the rug, when Sherlock pushed into him. 

“Oh god,” John managed in a strangled voice.  “Oh god, Sherlock.”

He dragged John’s arm back more, knowing it was the bad shoulder, relishing the gasp of pain and pleasure.  Sherlock set a fast pace, bent over John and breathing hard, left hand pushed against the doctor’s face to brace himself.  He could feel the puffs of air against his palm with each thrust.

“Harder,” John moaned.

Sherlock ignored him, keeping the pace he’d settled into, feeling the tense coil in his groin sharpen even more.

“Oh god,” John said again.  “Sherlock– _harder_.”

“Is that what you want, John?” Sherlock murmured, dipping his tongue into John’s ear, moving in time with his strokes.

“ _Please_ , Sherlock,” John whimpered.  “Harder. _Now._ ”

Sherlock grinned ferociously and picked up the pace, pounding into John until the doctor’s whimpers and moans were edged with sobs.  He bit the insides of his cheeks to keep focused against the heat and the tightness and the sounds of John breaking down beneath him.  Using the weight of his own body, he pressed John against the rough wool, moaning at the thought of the rug scratching small burns into John’s skin.

He thrust harder until John wasn’t even sobbing, able to do nothing but gasp, fingers curling hard into the carpet as he stiffened, a hoarse cry escaping his lips.  Sherlock pushed himself as far in as he could, dropping his head to sink his teeth around John’s shoulder blade as he came, the doctor’s startled shout muffling the detective’s own desperate moan.

When he could move again, he eased himself out of John slowly – not entirely to spare John the discomfort.  The doctor’s plaintive little whimpers stirred a new flare of desire, but it was far too soon and he tenderly kissed John’s back, to help dampen the pain, as he pulled away.

“Oh god,” John managed as he rolled onto his side with hisses and winces, opening an arm to Sherlock.  The detective bundled the doctor to him carefully, sliding his fingertips down John’s spine and relishing the sharp intake of breath as he dipped them just into the crease between his cheeks.  Sherlock let the potential linger for a moment then drew his hand up to flatten against the small of John’s back.

John’s cheeks were still flushed and Sherlock was pleased to see raw, reddened patches on his chest and hips where the carpet had bitten into sensitive skin.  With a slow smile, he pressed a thumb into one of them, tracing up its length, earning another deep moan from John, half protest, half pleasure.

“This patient of yours,” Sherlock murmured, leaning forward to kiss John’s swollen lips, tugging the bottom one lightly between his teeth.  “Will he be coming back?”

“Oh yeah,” John said, eyes falling open, a slow smile spreading across his lips.  “He has a follow-up appointment next week.”


End file.
